On colorism and anti-blackness in the virtual sphere.
Last week, black British women influencers found themselves embroiled in a Twitter uproar after an anonymous Twitter account unearthed their old tweets dating back from 2012 to 2016, all containing misogynoiristic and colorist rhetoric that many dark-skinned black women like myself are all too familiar with.
The tweets described black dark-skinned women as unattractive, aggressive and rowdy, coupled with xenophobic anti-Somali “jokes” and sexual assault gibes. While some Twitter users chalked it up to teenage ignorance, most were outraged, resulting in a major upheaval on black British Twitter. It is reported that popular online influencer Nella Rose alone lost at least 70,000 Twitter followers since the “exposé,” illustrating the magnitude of people’s anger. “I used to hate black girls, because I used to hate myself,” the Congolese-British Youtuber said in her apology video.
Misogyny and anti-blackness are pervasive in virtual spaces. Saturated with derogatory misogynoirisitic remarks — ranging from sexual violence and abuse against black dark-skinned women, to seemingly “benign” unsolicited comments on hair and makeup choices that don’t “fit” dark complexions — it is a painful reality that besets dark-skinned women of color.
Colorism is a global phenomenon. It is an institutionalized form of violence with very real consequences. A progeny of slavery and European colonialism, colorism is a form of color-bias and skin-tone discrimination that privileges light-skinned people and demonizes dark-skinned people. In The Consequences of Colorism, sociologist Margaret Hunter notes that “gaps exist between darker and lighter people of each racial/ethnic group” in various facets of life, such as media, the beauty industry, income-inequality, “education, criminal justice sentencing, housing, and the marriage market.” Where institutional racism and white-privilege prevail, marginalized groups have historically had to assimilate into dominant cultural structures, positioning themselves in close approximation to whiteness.
In comparison to light-skinned women, black dark-skinned women are more likely to be harshly disciplined in academic settings and receive longer prison sentences due to the perceived threat of their complexion. In 2015, black women were denied entry into a London nightclub for being “too dark and overweight,” reminiscent of the infamous brown paper bag test of the U.S.’ Reconstruction era, which allowed some black people access to exclusive spaces and jobs if their skin tone was lighter than the paper bag. Amongst academic literature and varying testimonials, lightness has long been equated to beauty, intelligence, wealth and success.
It also appears as though colorism has manifested itself into a growing consortium of Instagram filters, makeup trends and skincare fads, creating the exotified “Instagram face,” which journalist Jia Tolentino describes as a cyborgian face: “a young face with poreless skin and plump, high cheekbones. It has catlike eyes and long, cartoonish lashes; it has a small, neat nose and full, lush lips. The face is distinctly white but ambiguously ethnic.”
The ethnic dimensions of the “Instagram face” echoes literature on “miscegenation” and the “hybridization” of ethnicities and cultures. Scholar Rafael Pérez-Torres notes that racial ambiguity in conjunction with distinct anglicized features, affords upward mobility, shape-shifting and moving into spaces of power and privilege. Popularized in the current pop-culture landscape, this look has long been placed on a proverbial pedestal, resulting in what Hunter calls “racial capital.” You can purchase brightening creams, facetune facial features and modify your body to gain social and economic success. Today, clicks, impressions and other key performance indicators are used to assess an Instagram influencer’s monetary value, appeal and status amongst an array of followers and brands. In a world where black dark-skinned influencers have been overlooked for beauty and fashion deals by their lighter and white counterparts, it is evident that the capitalization and commodification of lightness persists.
Colorism affects all of us. Light-skinned women also face the burden of proving their blackness and lineage, often oscillating between being viewed as too black or not enough. Fetishizing mixedness forgets how “mestizaje embodies a historical narrative involving sexual coercion, emerging from the nexus between rape and the violent traffic in female bodies,” writes Pérez-Torres. In most communities of color, “mestizaje” reflects and highlights “a racial, sexual, and national memory” and a reminder of the “colonization and conquest” of black and brown female bodies, reducing them to sexual objects to be exotified and violated. Colorism is a divisive strategy resulting in a color hierarchical system that none of us asked to be a part of. No one wins.
It is no wonder that given the historical implications and context of colorism, this phenomenon plagues communities of color. Co-opted by online users, colorism and misogynoir have become tools to enact demeaning forms of what I call, ‘virtual violence.’ Young girls absorb the narratives around the supposed inferiority of dark skin, through their black mirror screens and other various mediated vehicles. Some deal with it in different ways. Some self-harm, and others, like Nella Rose, espouse the same vitriolic drawl that has subjugated black women for so long. It is much easier to disassociate yourself from a world where blackness was rarely celebrated and “African-descent phobia” was rife.
In her video, she remembers getting “cussed” for having big lips, a wide nose and “picky hair.” This is why I felt empathy for a then-teenage Nella who learned and internalized this behavior, imitating strategies that have upheld oppressive structures, whilst cementing a deep-seated self-dissatisfaction, and a “lowered self-concept” in many young girls like herself.
Nella Rose’s apology has garnered nearly half a million views and she has since deactivated her social media accounts, a result of the backlash and merciless attacks on her mother’s death. In my view, Nella’s apology was genuine. She acknowledged her wrong-doings, contextualized her behavior and avoided tearful excuses.
But one thing bothered me. “Feel free to slander me,” she exclaimed. “Everybody is ripping me, from my appearance to my weight. Feel free to do so, because I understand the outrage.” Slandering her appearance falls into the very same domain that people criticized her for to begin with. It is counterproductive and is also why “Cancel Culture” provides no room for an adequate or nuanced discussion on the historical implications of colorism. Twitter serves as a platform to commodify pain for likes, and capitalize on shame for retweets. Increasing one’s social capital at the expense of meaningful and restorative justice is the greatest injustice of them all. The public outcries, while justified, rapidly became a vicious witch hunt, minimizing opportunities to address the debilitating psychological, behavioral and emotional impact of anti-black rhetoric and colorism on black women. Analyzing the intersection of race and gender, black women are subjected to harsher forms of aesthetic labor. From skin bleaching to altering hair textures and cosmetic surgery, women of color are taught to recreate socially acceptable versions of themselves, a pressure that black women, in particular, are forced to bear. Instead of chastising grown black men who gained popularity by posting egregious tweets about raping and disrespecting dark-skinned women, black women were situated at the center of the uproar, taking the heat and blame.
What Nella Rose and her peers said was unacceptable. Apologies were issued. Some genuine, others were not (depending on who you ask), but the conversation failed to escape the Twittersphere’s propensity to reduce a much-needed discussion to “she’s canceled!” diatribes. People overlooked Nella Rose’s history of carving out a space for young black beauty and lifestyle enthusiasts to freely express themselves, making black women feel seen in a historically hostile virtual sphere. They ignored evidence of her personal growth and evolution in her adult life. ”I’m happy I’m out of that state,” Nella Rose later said. “I embody my African-ness. I embody my love for black women, and I embody a love for myself.”
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Adaora Oramah is a Nigerian-American photographer and creative strategist with a specialized interest in highlighting business developments and trends in Africa’s cultural and creative industries. Adaora has worked at reputable media companies as well as advertising and design agencies including VICE, OkayAfrica, Omnicom’s RAPP Worldwide and Aruliden. Keep up with her on Instagram, LinkedIn and her website.
